Next Mallet came, Mallet who knows each art,The ear to tickle, and to sooth the heart;Who, with a goose-quill, like a magic rod,Transforms a Scottish peer into a God.Oh! matchless Mallet, by one stroke to clear,One lucky stroke, four hundred pounds a year!Long round a court poor Gay dependant hung,(And yet most trimly has the poet sung)Twice six revolving years vain-hoping past.And unrewarded went away at last.